


Could you breathe with me?

by Euny_Sloane



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Counseling, Healing, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Psychotherapy, Relief, Tears, Therapy, Trauma Recovery, mental health, reference to family rejection, reference to toxic family/emotional abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 06:29:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euny_Sloane/pseuds/Euny_Sloane
Summary: Aziraphale goes to counseling/therapy with an unnamed therapist and spends some time exploring his feelings related to love, loss, and family.Note that this is an imagined counseling session, and so may bring up uncomfortable feelings, regardless of how many tags I place, especially if you have the unfortunately common experience of feeling unloved by your family, or unworthy of love. Nothing graphic happens except a reference to Pompeii, though.





	Could you breathe with me?

The office is quiet enough to hear the whoosh of the white noise machine in the background. Windowsill cluttered with plants, all twisted up with each other like drowsing lovers.  


Soft afternoon light drifts in between their stems and pools around the hands of a man who holds very still, except forefinger and thumb slowly turning a gold winged band around and around on his pinky, eyes unfocused and ringed with tension.

“Mr. Fell.”

“Mmm, yes?”

“Mr. Fell, are you alright? Do you want to put this topic on hold for now?”

“Oh, I, no, I I don’t mean to be difficult.”

“That’s not really my worry here. It’s clear that this topic is very troubling for you, and relates to a time when you felt like you didn’t have control or safety. It is very important to me that you feel in control of what we talk about and when, especially when it relates to things like this.”

“Things like… this?”

“Mr. Fell, do you recall what we were talking about?”

“Ah, no, my dear lady, I’m sorry, I… my thoughts seem to have gotten away with me.”

“Would you like to talk about the thoughts that are coming to mind?”

The man considered, looked down at his hands, and noticing his thumb pushing his loosened ring in circles, took a breath, and pushed it more fully onto his finger, laying hands cradled together in his lap. “I don’t think so. I’m not sure what I’m thinking, truth be told.”

“That’s OK.” 

The therapist waited, Mr. Fell started to spin his ring again, slowly tracing the lines in the carpet with his eyes.

“Would you be able to tell me what you’re feeling,” she asked, voice softer than before. 

Aziraphale considered. What am I feeling? and simply shrugged. 

“Perhaps there is a sensation in your body which you can describe?” she suggested, several long breaths later. 

“It’s like…”

“Mmm?” she encouraged.

“It’s like a piece is gone.”

“A piece?”

“A piece of me, of my insides.” Not even a piece I liked, he thought. 

“That sounds like loss.”

“I guess. I guess a little, but not really.”

“OK. Just something gone. Missing? Can you stay with that feeling, breathing into it? You don’t have to use words to describe it unless you want to, and we can also stop any time you like.” 

A patch of sunlight through the window highlighted first one, then another part of a begonia, a spider plant, a jade, as the clouds and trees shifted position outside.

“It’s as if… there is just some kind of gap in my breast. I’m sorry dear, but I can’t be more specific.”

“You’re doing just fine," she said, and after a pause, "Do you feel OK to stay with this?”

“Certainly, certainly, I hope I’m not worrying you,” he replied, hands gone still in his lap again, half-smiling, only briefly meeting his therapist’s eyes. 

“Mr. Fell. I know you are very interested in being polite, and I appreciate that. Is it possible to allow us to focus on your comfort, your needs in this moment?”

“Oh,” breathed Aziraphale and felt the hole inside him, suddenly sharp-edged and hot, rising into his throat. He started to speak, felt the heat reach his eyes, blinking fast. 

Neither spoke for a while. The clock, facing the therapist, ticked softly on the desk. Aziraphale’s shoulders rose and fell more quickly than usual. “That’s hard for you.” she observed. 

Aziraphale nodded, still not trusting his voice, hot stones filling his throat, convinced they would come burning up out of him, to bury them both alive like the children he remembered from Pompeii. Thinking of the smells of that day, his breath started coming faster. Crowley had miracled extra boats, and he… he had just believed, believed in the plan while an island tore itself apart. 

“Would you be able to take a few slow, deep breaths with me, Mr. Fell?” A few lines of concern had formed on the therapists face, watching her client retreat further into himself. 

Aziraphale nodded. 

“Ok, then. What I’d like you to do is to take a normal, comfortable breath in, then hold it for just a couple of moments, and then breathe out long and slow.” Her words merged into a monotone, smooth and soothing. “As you breathe out long and slow, as fully as you can, you’re letting your body get the message that you’re OK, that you’re getting enough air, that you’re safe.” 

Aziraphale complied, and the stones in his throat liquefied, redirected, to leak out of his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure why I’m so upset.”

After a quiet “mm,” and a briefly sad expression which Aziraphale was too absorbed to catch, she observed wryly “if it’s not OK to cry in a therapist’s office, where on earth is it permitted?”

Nowhere, nowhere, thought Aziraphale, nowhere on earth or in heaven or… no, he couldn’t imagine tears being encouraged in Hell, unless that was the point of all the punishment. An awful lot to go through just to be permitted a good long cry. “I suppose you have a point, Miss,” he said with a watery attempt at a smile. 

“Do you want to tell me what that brought up? When I asked you to let us focus on your needs?” 

“It’s hard to explain,” he said, meeting her eyes only briefly before sliding away.

“It’s your call - you also get to say no.”

He sighed. “It’s what I’m here for, though. Anthony says he’s tired of me hiding from him when I’m… when I need, well...” She waits, leaning forward, and for a moment Aziraphale senses the way this creates an ache in her back, does so every day, so that at the end of the week her body is a landscape of pain. He leans back in his chair and she mirrors the gesture, as he hoped. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Anywhere, Mr. Fell. You get to start anywhere.” 

“I just felt like I deserved it.”

She waits. Voices and footsteps in the hall, briefly audible over the white noise machine “it’s just down this way…”

“I truly thought they were right. They knew better. They were better. I’m… the foolish one, the fop. The one who lost… things.” 

She nods, “Mhm. They were right?”

“Yes, they were right, that I didn’t deserve to…” and the stones were back as if miracled into existence in his throat, unforgiving, and he released a sob, hands lifting to his face, unable to bear being seen or seeing, though knowing in all his long existence there was nothing he could do to avoid seeing. Only his desire for them to conceal his vision allowed his fingers them to block anything out.”...I didn’t deserve their love, and she shut me out too, and the only one who cared was supposed to be evil only he isn’t and if” here he paused, sobbing, breath hitching, rough. 

“...if,” she prompted, 

“if he really isn’t evil, wasn’t evil, what if they were wrong about everything and what if I didn’t deserve…” oh it was too much, too much, and he really didn’t want to say this out loud to anyone. 

Listening, she took slow, deep breaths, obviously loud - in, pause, out, in, pause, out. Aziraphale’s breathing slowed, almost matching, breathing in too fast still, and said quietly “you know, sometimes, when the people who are supposed to love us do not know how to give us love in a way that feels like love, especially when we are young, we decide that it’s our fault. It can feel safer, to live in a world where the family who is your only defense, your only source of food and safety, if the way they treat you is your fault. It can give us, when we are at our most defenseless, a sense of control. It’s actually very very helpful, much like ‘checking out’ mentally can be very helpful, when we are not really loved, not really safe, and not able to care for ourselves alone.”

He thought he couldn’t cry harder than he had been. He knew this, knew everything she was telling him, had seen this time and again with children, had even seen it in Crowley, but he just knew it couldn’t apply to him. He was too soft, he was too impulsive, he yielded when he should be adamant. It had to be his fault - they did love him, they did. Isn’t that what angels do?

“It’s only later, when we feel safer - when we are better loved, that it stops serving us, this belief that we deserve to suffer.” The therapist’s eyes looked a little shiny herself, and she cradled a tissue in one hand. 

Aziraphale nodded a little, then shook his head and winced. This body wasn’t used to tears and he could already feel a headache coming on. 

“It’s new for you to feel so loved,” she observed. “It’s a difficult thing to adjust to.”

“But - but it’s wonderful. He’s wonderful.”

“I’m so glad that you’ve found him - found each other. I wish it didn’t come with this suffering for you, but,” spreading her hands in a hopeless gesture as if showing she has nothing better to show “the good news is that you can move through this, even though it’s hard.” 

“Thank you, dear. I hope you are correct. I would hate for my… partner… to lose patience with me.” 

“From what you’ve told me about Anthony, that sounds not especially likely.” 

“He has already been terribly patient already,” observed Aziraphale, with the first genuine smile he had shown since he sat down in the office.

“You’ve said. It seems unlikely he will stop now.”

Aziraphale just shrugged, smile turned rueful. 

“I hate to say this, but we’re running close to the end of our time today,” and as Aziraphale moved to stand up, she added, reaching out a hand to stall him, “but we have a few minutes, and I wanted to check in with you before you go. I don’t want you to walk out the door feeling like an open wound.” 

“I think I’ll be alright, no need to worry, really.”

The therapist just raised her eyebrows and sighed gently. 

Aziraphale made an abortive sort of laugh. “Really, I will be all right, I am sure I will be in the pink once I have some tea….”

“...and a snack? That can be awfully grounding after having strong feelings.”

“Oh yes. I wouldn’t mind that at all.” 

“Good. Do you have any other ideas for how you might be gentle with yourself after you leave here today?”

“Well, Anthony and I were going to get some dinner out, but I think perhaps I’d rather just stay in.” 

“...perhaps read a favorite book, or watch a comforting movie?”

“Oh yes, that sounds lovely. I have a couple of new volumes of Mrs. Oliver’s poetry to read. It is terribly modern, but Anthony was convinced I would like it.”

“Excellent. And could you tell me how you feel about our conversation today?”

“Oh you were lovely dear, don’t worry about…” but she raised her eyebrows again, equal parts amusement and exasperation, and he sighed. “I think it was helpful. I do not exactly feel… good. But I maybe feel… a little lighter?” And it was true, that space in his breast that had felt so sharp and empty still felt lighter, and maybe smaller, somehow. 

“OK. Good, I’m glad. Sometimes we just feel worse after talking about difficult things, and that’s OK too, but I’m glad you feel a little lighter. Are we all set for next week still?”

“Yes, certainly, I’ll be here.” 

“Excellent. And thank you for your trust today.”

Aziraphale smiled, rising to his feet and gently tugging his waistcoat into place. “Thank you, Miss. For listening to me go on and on.” 

She rose and turned to open the door, smiling broadly “That’s pretty much what I’m here for, Mr. Fell. Have a good afternoon.”

“And you, Miss,” he said with a small wave, already halfway down the hall and thinking of a nearby café with a particularly scrumptious pain au chocolat.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a couple of case notes for Good Omens characters - Crowley and Anathema. This got me thinking about writing actual sessions for Good Omens characters, and also about how challenging it would be to write a case note for Aziraphale, and then I wrote this. 
> 
> I am a therapist with several years of experience in the field, but I get to work in private, and in a sense, this is inviting strangers into my office to watch one of the tenderest, hardest scenes that I’ve replayed with a number of clients and, quite frankly, with my own therapist. Each client is unique, but there are themes that replay for most of us who struggle with our sense of worth, and I've been privileged to be in this particular type of scene many times. 
> 
> Just in case you identified strongly with Aziraphale and are reading this note, please also allow me to say something that did not fit into this particular narrative: whatever your family did or said was not your fault. It almost never is. 
> 
> I also feel compelled to note that I prefer to read fluff, not angst, and so have written a thing I doubt I would want to read, myself. So thank you, truly, if you made it to the end of this.


End file.
